Music & Memories: Songs of a Wookiee
by The Mutant Velociraptor
Summary: There aren't enough Chewbacca fics around. A short narrative from Chewie's point of view, about his life and his death, trying to define himself as a person instead of just a character. Horrendously sad.


** Music & Memories: Songs of a Wookiee**

I've always liked music, ever since I was little. Of course, it's never been _ obvious_; I liked mechanics more, but still – music has always been my friend. It relaxed me, soothed me, calmed me down when times were bad. Sometimes I think it was the music that got me through the time before I met Han. At night, I used to listen to the others. Sometimes they would sing, sometimes they would hum – but even if they didn't, I would remember a tune I had heard before and even the _memory_ used to help me forget; forget where I was, forget _ what_ I was.

When I joined Han, there was too much action to ever really focus on music. But still, at night, after a nightmare – yes, sometimes I used to get nightmares about those times – I used to think about the music and then things were all right again. Eventually, the nightmares reduced over time, until finally they never returned again – not to say I didn't think about it: I did; just not in my dreams. It was then I really began to forget. Not about my past, but about my friend: the music.

It was one day when the hyperdrive had blown a fuse yet again that I rediscovered my old hobby. Han and I were on Tatooine, in one of the lesser villages, when I saw a small shop set somewhere near the mechanic we were at. It called to me. Something about it just attracted me inexplicably.

I excused myself, and wandered over to the shop – which was little more than a stall – and I was shocked.

The 'shop' was full of different musical instruments, most of which I recognized. But one, one in particular caught my eye.

I recognized it immediately; I had had one earlier on, but it had been so long ago I forgot its name.

Not so long ago, however, that I had forgotten how to _play_ it.

Luckily, I had had a few credits on me, and had managed to convince the salesman to take them, telling him he could exchange them with the next person who came along. It was hard getting him to understand, and he was stubborn, but after a lot of persuasion and pointing, he agreed and… and I had my prize.

It wasn't much to look at. From a distance, it resembled a scrap of wood. It was actually a sort of flute, or pipe _carved_ out of wood. True, it wasn't the prettiest one on the market. But, for once, it was _mine_ – and that's all that mattered.

When I showed it to Han, he gave me an incredulous look and said, "Chewie, I didn't know you liked music," but that was all, and he soon forgot about it. I, however, wasn't going to make the same mistake twice – every night, when I was alone, I would take it out and play it for a bit. Quietly, so not to disturb anyone, but all the same, it helped. It helped me remember, and it helped me forget at the same time.

During that whole period in the war with the Empire, it felt like I had forgotten my music again. I hadn't, not really; every so often, when I had time, I would take my little pipe out and start playing it, but it wasn't _real_. It didn't have the same effect anymore. It was all fake and artificial. I felt as if I had lost a part of myself, but I kept all those feelings private; war kept me on edge, kept me busy.

It got worse after the war. Han didn't need me anymore, or at least it didn't feel like it – he had Leia, and as happy as I was for him I couldn't help but feel a little jealous. It didn't really matter though; all emotions were numbed by this unmistakable feeling of aloneness. I had lost more than just the music; I had lost a part of me, I had lost a part of my soul.

It kept going. It kept ebbing away. My family and friends kept me busy, and I knew those immediately around me could sense something wrong, but I refused to talk about it. Why? I suppose… maybe… I was scared.

And when I tried to play my little pipe, I couldn't. The rhythm, the pacing, everything was off. I could have cried. I would have cried. But I, as a fool, didn't. I kept it inside. Maybe, if I had told somebody, maybe, then perhaps I could have died happy.

Because, you know, when I did die, it didn't really matter. 

I had been dead for a while anyway.

**Fin**

**-**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Chewbacca, Han Solo, Leia, or anybody else mentioned here.  
**A/N:** There is a sad lack of Chewbacca fics around. I, personally, love Chewie as much as Han (if not more; and that's saying something). I'm sorry this is so sad (and repetitive, as Viki [-wave!-] so kindly pointed out), but I did want to enforce the fact Chewie is a person too, and not just a big hairy guy in a movie. Writing this made me horribly depressed, but I needed to get it out, so.. enjoy.


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